Tag: grief

Highlight one of the NC500 – A royal goodbye

If you’ve been reading along for the last 6 months or so you’ll be very well aware of our trip to Scotland and the NC500. Now that we are back, and after sharing my daily thoughts on our day to day activities, I am editing my original itineraries (if needed) and sharing the logistics of this trip with you in a special Scotland series of blogs. In addition to those I will be doing a highlight series too. Which means I will be picking out one particular point or experience of each of the days spent in Scotland that really stood out for me on this trip. 

This is my highlight from Day 1. 

I wish, with all of my travellers heart and soul I could say that the Cairngorms with their cacophony of colours and textures had won me over on this day. Winding rivers dominate the landscape and I am so fond of how Scottish rivers bubble through the valleys despite being on a rather flat piece of land. As you drive through the snow roads you have such a feeling of remoteness and being alone that it somehow introduces you for the first time to the Highlands and what the NC500 route will entail. Like I said, I wish this was the highlight, but it just wasn’t. 

Just two days before the Queen’s funeral in London, we arrived at Balmoral. Unsure of whether our plan to hike to Prince Albert’s Cairn would proceed it was always our intention to try. It was very obvious on our arrival at the car park that the hikes surrounding the Balmoral Estate were all closed and yet my usual disappointed feeling was lost in the fray of grief and arriving cars. 

The area was silent except for the wind rushing through the trees and the ferocious River Dee below a beautiful green arched bridge. You felt the grief in the air, shall we say. Unbeknownst to us whether we would even get into the car park, we didn’t buy flowers, and made our way up from Edinburgh. Much of this day was unsure due to recent events. 

When the death of our Queen was announced, and with our trip so close, tensions were high in not knowing just how to grieve. When the funeral was announced we found out that we would not be at home. Of course, with modern technology you can record such events, but something just wasn’t sitting right with me. WIth such a momentous time in history it felt strange to go about our trip and not do something. It was also one of those moments in time which felt so serendipitous. Having never been north of Edinburgh before and now facing a visit to the Balmoral Estate just 9 days after our monarch’s death was utterly bizarre. It was as if it was meant to be. 

And there they were. The black gates with the gold lettering. The world’s press had been on these pavements just a few days before. She had been here just a few days before. Now there were just a handful of people with hundreds of bouquets resting quietly in place before the stone walls. The space was silent. It was as if everyone’s grief had come to rest here. And for the first time since her death my mind cleared. It was as if I had found the outlet I needed. 

I took the time to look at the thick carpet of flowers. Red roses. Purple irises. White lilies. Sunny sunflowers. Something to show love and adoration. Symbols of thanks, grief and sorrow. Cards and notes. Drawings and photos. The outpouring of love and sadness was thick in the air. It was palpable. 

One might find it strange that in a travel blog you have found yourself reading about death and grief. And yet the more time I spent at those gates, by those flowers, in silence, the more sense it made. This was my time to grieve on a personal level. Having not made it into London was hard and my physical ability and mental capacity at the time had a huge impact on my choice on whether to go. But there I was, at the scene of the biggest loss in this country’s most recent history and it was as if the itinerary I wrote all those months ago had put me exactly where I needed to be. Travel does that. It puts you right where you need to be.

Mr W wandered around the space while I took the time to reach a mental space that I felt happy with. I said goodbye to our Queen Eilzabeth with a much clearer mind and conscience. Later on in the trip we managed to pause our day’s plans and watch the funeral online. We joined the rest of the world as she made her final journey and it was unbelievably beautiful. 

However, I will never forget the time I stood before her Scottish home and said my own personal goodbyes. Just us. 

Our constant. Our Queen.
NC500 Day 1- Edinburgh and the Cairngorms.
NC500 Day 1 – Itinerary

Shiny new toy

The last four days have been a steady stream of information and sadness in the passing of our Queen. Elizabeth II was a constant in our lives who never wavered and our loss is only just beginning. There will be the very reality of her passing to come to terms with in various forms. The changing of the literal, the money, postage stamps and passports example. And then there will be the more tangible times which will hurt our hearts. The Christmas speeches and the very unusual ‘God Save the King’ (I actually typed the ‘Q’ before remembering this has now changed) phrase we now adopt. 

Friday and the days since have seen people crowd into London to line the streets for a glimpse of the new King and his Queen consort. On Friday it felt beautiful to behold him arrive at the palace, his new home, and yet also so very sad to see him attend to the crowd. Smiling and shaking his way along the line of waiting mourners it felt strange to see the happy faces just 24 hours after the Queen’s passing. 

Where was the grief? 

I understand the unusual circumstances, who can say that they have shaken a King’s hand? And to be one of the first? Who wouldn’t want to? Perhaps this will be the only chance for him to hit us with his best shot. This may be the prime time to prove his devotion and loyalty to this country and the commonwealth. His connection with his people will be closer now than ever, when would a better time arise to plant the seed of trust than now? Gain respect in the very beginning when emotions are high. It is a very shrewd move. It is also telling of how quick we are to judge him, the people there, and the ones who watched, based on this one appearance. Why was he smiling? Was it a consoling face? Or a new King stepping into his role? Dare I say, happy to be adored?

Do not get me wrong, I have no anger towards the man, no problems with him whatsoever. I don’t know him, none of us truly will, I judge him purely on what emotions I saw on display at the time. And as we all know too well, a smile can hide a world of hurt. I am sad to think about how much pain he could have been hiding away. I wish he and the rest of the family could have had their time like any of the rest of us have when we lose a loved one. 

It personally felt tacky on the crowds part to smile and cheer whilst her Majesty was 500 miles away and barely cold. I commend Charles III for reaching out to the crowd but it didn’t feel as though someone so treasured had just died, it felt too celebratory. It was sad enough to think he had barely any time to grieve himself before his duties began. And yet there he was kissing strangers and being the happy Charlie for the clapping crowd. 

The crowd that flocked to Buckingham Palace over Thursday afternoon waiting word on her Majesty was silent. They stood with bated breath while updating their news apps and watching the palace. When the flag fell to half mast, quiet tears rolled down anguished cheeks and voices caught in throats. The crowd came to be where her spirit still remained. To the largest icon of her name. Her home. They seemed lost. Wandering and waiting. It felt very organic. 

Friday felt more or less an extension of the same flock. Mourners and lost souls looking for others who felt equally saddened and grief bound. Upon the King’s arrival I fear the excitement quite literally pushed the sorrow aside. Yesterday, after the world watched the crowds meeting a King on Friday, even more people flocked to Central London. Maybe they too could grasp a monarch’s hand! It is a shame to think, and very morbid, that this may have been the reason people made the journey. That the lost souls of Thursday have been replaced by the fame seekers of Saturday. That the tear stained faces have been replaced by smiles and shouts of ‘I shook the King’s hand!’. Kissing the King and plastering your story over the news channels is really quite unsavoury.

I know all of the above is very cynical and it comes from a place of grief. A place where I feel strongly about needing to show respect when someone has passed. Yes, we have a new monarch, in name and position Charles is a replacement, but not in spirit or adoration. That will come in time I am sure but it will be for what he stands for and does in the next couple of decades that dictates how much he is worth to his country. This is a fresh slate in our history. He is not his mother. And therefore our grief should not be replaced by the thrill of a shiny new toy. There is a lot of respect to be given at a time like this. Respect for her. Respect for him and his family. Respect we hold for ourselves to understand, grieve and act appropriately. 

I am sure in the days to come we will all find our path through the sadness and accept the new era ahead. The funeral will see the country come together and grieve like never before. A collective sigh for one very special lady. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Tick tock

Cushioning the weakness within on those lonely nights she embraces her pillow. Smuggles it under the blankets to feel warmth. Hugs it close creating the illusion of love once held in the same measures. There’s no room for pain. Or tears. The bulk of him still weighs her down. Collapses her breath. Dulls her pulse. Heightens her senses. Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Damn clock. The quilt is heavy. Shrouds her in darkness; covers the lie she creates every night. He’s not there. Not really. Subconsciously she knows he never was there. Not really. Now asleep; the dreams she had in waking hours can come alive. She embraces the ‘him’ she had hoped he would be. The pillow falls to the ground cold and unwanted. Awake in the morning. Without him. No shroud; she too is cold and unwanted. 

She embraces nothing.

All part of the narrative

If you have read my last few blogs you may have seen how excited I’ve been to set up our pool for the summer. We are yet to use it properly and with the impending heat wave of doom it feels like we are halfway to actually surviving it. 

The thing is, when you own your very own property things can change really quickly. Obviously I don’t think there is a curse placed on mortgage payers, but it can be a kick in the gut (and wallet) when something unforeseen happens. Usually for us its technology, last year we had a 6 month struggle with our boiler. 6 months prior to that, our dishwasher upped and fucked off due to a internal complication I think it made up quite personally. 12 months previously to that, our fridge freezer decided it wanted to shuffle off its mortal coils. And fun stuff like that seems to happen a lot when you have zero back up plan and really would like to have some savings building up. This week, our cat decided to check out our pool and punctured its air-filled dreaminess. Mr W and I have spent all of 30 minutes in its cool depths, all of those in the shade. Frustrated is not the word. We are yet to find the tiny hole that is deflating our hopes and dreams. 

The problem with owning a house is there’s no landlord or council that has a duty of care and maintenance to come and fix said items. I mean, if you rent and burst your swimming pool and Landlord Larry will fix it for you, well quite frankly, when can I move in? 

It’s a delicate line to tread when owning your home. On one side there’s the fear of something breaking and checking the sofa for coins to fix the problem. The constant cycle of decorating and learning about electrics and plumbing and a whole host of DIY skills. We had a flood during the lockdown of 2020 because the pump for the electric shower decided it needed a laugh. The flood rained down through a newly installed ceiling and we haven’t been able to fix the pump whatsoever. It sits waiting for the next big project. If I had decided to kick the pump around the garden like a football I’d understand. If I had run the dishwasher for 24 hours straight for a month I’d understand. But technology truly has a mind of its own. 

The pool however, did not decide to deflate. Our ginger Tom saw to that. He is like a moth to a flame when it comes to water. He likes it colder than cold, fresher than fresh and will nick your tea or wine if unattended. The boy is a liquid lusting whore. I could scream and shout, I actually want to, but I learned years ago that our animal friends, our pets, companions, and family are a blessing. If he had sat on that decking, drawn out a claw and run it down the plastic much like someone would key a car, then I’d be having words. However the simple fact is, he wanted water, he went for it. It is his quirk. Much like our other cat’s quirk is to want attention just as you are falling asleep or the other’s is to claw his way up your leg to say hello. Much like Sylvester Stallone in ‘Cliffhanger’. They don’t do it to annoy us. Nor to irritate or make angry. It’s just them. 

I have lost patience with previous animal loves and you can’t take it back. I regret how I used to tell off our dog about peeing in the home. She wasn’t well and I wish I had been kinder. I used to get exasperated about the mess. But the truth is, I’d do it all over again for more time with her. The same goes for our black moggy who we lost in 2019. She would scream at me from the kitchen counter for food. All day she’d cry. And I would cry back at her. ‘Yes, yes, in a minute.’ What I would give to hear those sounds again. What I’d give to have learnt more patience back then. But now, I live with those lessons and what it has taught me. 

The truth is, I let our cats get away with murder, they are pampered beyond belief and I think thats because they’ll never understand just how much they mean to us so I find other ways to make sure they know. They’ve been there every single day during lockdown. They give me cuddles on my bad days. They give me a reason to get up. They’re true companions. 

So when one yaks up on the floor, I’ll sigh and grab the kitchen towel. When there’s a puddle of pee because our tiled floor is better than the flower beds and grass, I’ll shake my head and get the mop. Because we brought them into this home, we chose them. They are entitled to be who they are. I can have the patience for them and their quirks. 

The same goes for the quirks of this house, technology has a shelf life. It shouldn’t but it does. A burst pipe, dodgy electrics and so on goes part and parcel with the mortgage. Would we have rented if we’d have realised all this in the beginning? No, of course not. Owning this house means our hard earned savings went somewhere and will one day pay for our retirement or travelling or even be handed down to our kids. It is something worthy of being patient about. However frustrating and hard it can be and often is. 

It was our choice to buy this place. The same as inviting our furry pals to live with us. It’s all about choice. So when something bursts, breaks or fizzles its electrics out of whack I will have a moment of disbelief, that’s only natural, but I’ll also take what I’ve learned about patience and carry on. It’s all part of the narrative. 

Now I need to find the pool puncture so I can sigh in a very chilled manner!

Photo by Dave Watson
Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com

Lola

I wrote this following piece in December 2020, more than anything I wrote it for me, I never shared it. For reasons I’ll explain later, I’m posting it today…

It’s a year to the day. If it was any other year I’d do the usual, where has the time gone speech. But really, where has the year gone?

Day after day sat on the sofa, watching the news, waiting for updates, fearing the worst, hoping for the best. But seriously, how has a year passed?

Time should have slowed down, it feels appropriate for the world to stop spinning when you are grieving. That the whole world will acknowledge your pain. The loss. The despair.

Lola was our dog. Our family. Our unconditionally loving friend.

The cats scattered everytime the doorbell went because Lola would bark and run through the house like a charging bull.

There was a dirty, slobbery, biscuit mark left by her muzzle on the front door. It was about a foot up from the floor, on the edge of the door and inside the frame, it was brown and sticky and gross. It was made everytime we came home and didn’t, by her standards, open the door fast enough. She’d squeeze that big ol’ head through the gap to get at us quicker. We were home. She was happy.

Her tip tapping across the tiled floors when dinner was seconds away from being hers. Her teddy that she chased up and down our garden. Never ripped or torn but carried back soaked with drool. Her bandana that made her look badass. Her youthful looks that despite her age had people asking if the figure in years was actually how old she was in months. Her loving looks at my husband. Her special hugs, sitting straight back into our arms, bobbing her paw if we stopped scratching her white chest. Her twisted claw, that never grew back quite right, after too many wild moments over the fields. Her loud, hurried crunching noises at her bowl and the fact she guzzled a whole bowl of water in seconds and trailed it through the house afterwards. Her legs kicking when chasing those dream rabbits and the hilarious snoring that caught us muting the TV to sit and laugh silently and deeply.

Her contentment at us being home.

I miss it all. I miss her. We miss her. The cats miss her. Everybody does. Why are there no other words to describe this pain. I’m not even questioning it. I’m demanding to know why there are no other words to describe this anguish. This loss. This grief. It’s a weight that holds you down. Yet without it, I fear she’s gone entirely. When the grief doesn’t catch you off guard and batter you and bruise you does it mean you have forgotten her? If love was enough, death would never have come.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, I feel guilty everyday for the times I yelled for the mess, for the noise. It is my punishment now to live with such a void. The silence in the room. No snoring. The ticking clock. No barking. The clean kitchen. No dribble.

A part of us died that day. It’s like taking a breath and never really feeling that deep breath of calm. Your lungs expand but it’s half arsed. It’s the tight, cold feeling inside the middle of your chest. It’s the shaking of your whole body when you cry those loud animalistic sobs. The sound issued from your mouth as your lungs fight to push the breath out despite your mind being overcome with grief. Your eyes expelling tear after tear with the pain of what was and now isn’t. It’s her not being here. And it’s the thought that there is no rainbow where she waits for us. There is no after where she runs. There is nothing. There’s only the sucking in of breath as you feel your insides go into shock. Life stands still.

And yet, it doesn’t, everything carries on. No one sees the destruction that is your mind and others ask when another will come. Angry. That makes me angry. Maybe it’s the process. That the anger will turn to hope. But right now, no. Tomorrow, no. A week, a month, no. No.

Her smell is gone from her collar. Her mark is gone from our door. The cats are settled in the silence.

And now in May 2022, reading that back, it’s unchanged. The pain is as fresh as ever. But it’s in the background. Like a scar. It’s present and it’ll never heal fully. It’s a reminder of what was.

This morning on my way to work, a huge truck passed, and from the passenger window a collie dog was barking at each car it passed. Laughter erupted from me so naturally that I couldn’t stop. They do that. These furry angels. They possess such a beautiful quality that lights up your life that it’s hard to let anything else darken your day. It’s not being able to tell them we love them in the conventional way that makes it so hard to say goodbye. To tell them they were so much more than they realised.

There is a psych analogy that says, ‘ Grief is like a box with a ball in it and a pain button on one side. In the early stages, the ball is very big. You cannot move the box without it frequently hitting the pain button. It rattles around on its own in there and hits the button over and over again, sometimes so much that it feels like you can’t stop it – you can’t control it – it just keeps hurting. But as time goes on, the ball gets smaller. It doesn’t disappear completely and when it hits the pain button, it’s just as intense, but generally, it is easier to get through each day.’

I want you, my lovely reader, to know that grief is natural, it’s not to be ashamed of and it’s not something to be understood. It’s a process. And it’s different for everyone. I truly believe when we lose a pet friend, it’s a different kind of grief, you don’t have words to exchange, only the hope that they know. That you gave them enough to know. I know all too well how hard it is to explain how you feel to someone who doesn’t understand. Perhaps they’ve never had a pet pal and can’t sympathise. It can be a lonely place. I’ve lost so many dear pet friends, our family furries, and it doesn’t get easier. And why should it. They add to our life in such a way without demanding anything back. Please know, you are not alone. It is the price we pay for the love we feel so deeply.

I miss her everyday. Still. It’s getting easier to think of giving a rescue dog a home. I not only miss her and the joy she brought, but I miss the joy of a dog. The unrelenting joy. But the guilt and feeling of replacing her still pushes the thought away. I hope one day we will because the scar she left behind is beautiful and will live forever. She’s still here. Wherever I go. A part of my make up. In the story of my life. Always.